


and a little terrible, then (part one)

by missingmymothership



Series: Seine Net [1]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, In conclusion: hire me Red Barrels, Miles Is Not White, Pre-Apocalypse, disabled!Waylon, eventual relationships planned, only gen now, the Walrider is more than it seems, y'all ruined my life it's the least you can do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-11-01 04:26:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10914309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missingmymothership/pseuds/missingmymothership
Summary: "Walrider," he said, voice splintering. "You're the Walrider. I'm dead."Part one complete; updates Thursdays.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [И немного ужасно потом](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14388909) by [m_izar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_izar/pseuds/m_izar)



> Y'all!!!! There's now a complete translation in Russian, done by the lovely m_izar!! I'm floored by the love I've gotten. Part two will be out as soon as possible--my health has just made it very difficult to write recently. Thank you all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been almost a year since I posted anything. I have nothing to say for myself. Right now I'm just setting the stage but I promise there's a plot!! I realize everyone and their grandmother has written a post-asylum AU but I like to think I'm putting my own little twist on it. Enjoy!

_I cannot tell you_  
_How beautiful the scene is, and a little terrible, then, when the crowded fish_  
_Know they are caught, and wildly beat from one wall to the other of their closing destiny the phosphorescent_  
_Water to a pool of flame, each beautiful slender body sheeted with flame, like a live rocket_  
_A comet's tail wake of clear yellow flame_

_The Purse Seine _  
_Robinson Jeffers _____

____ _ _

____The pavement was cold against the face. Harsh copper in the mouth, dribbling something bright down the cheek. Drip._ _ _ _

____Drip._ _ _ _

____Drip._ _ _ _

____The pavement was cold against their face. The joints ached. Their joints. Bone-deep stabs. Their eyelids were crusted with gore, and they blinked dry eyes._ _ _ _

____The pavement was cold against his face. He coughed and staggered to his feet. A mass of darkness supported him, cushioned his elbows as he slipped, stayed standing, leaned into the black._ _ _ _

____**miles,** a razor-wire-whisper dragged through his head. **miles,** said the dark, **take us somewhere safe.**_ _ _ _

____Miles. Miles; he was Miles, and a flash of--disfigured faces, icy sewer--thick stench against his tongue, flies already burrowed in bloated flesh. “Walrider,” he said, voice splintering. “You’re the Walrider. I’m dead.”_ _ _ _

____The Walrider was silent._ _ _ _

____“Where are we?” he choked out._ _ _ _

____**take us somewhere safe.** _ _ _ _

____Miles blinked, rubbed his dry tongue against the roof of his mouth._ _ _ _

____**take us somewhere safe.** _ _ _ _

____He walked on. It was all he could do._ _ _ _

____ _ _

_____-two months later-_ _ _ _ _

____It was the kind of day where the cottonwood seeds float down like snow and the wind comes from the south. The kind of day to sit out under your porch-haint with a pitcher of sweet tea--because you’re just in that sweet spot in the Mississippi where people have a taste for it--and invite your neighbors inside for a stick-to-your-ribs meal. It would be too warm for work, too swimmingly humid, but people would be out anyway because even farmers have deadlines._ _ _ _

____If you _were_ outside, mending a fence or doing whatever else you had to do, maybe you’d get lucky and someone’s wife’d drive up with trays of the same food she’d be serving to your neighbors. Or maybe that wasn’t so lucky. To Miles, it certainly wasn’t--dead men don’t eat._ _ _ _

____When Suzanna rolled around with a truck bed stacked with foil trays, he didn’t take much. He never did; his work buddies were used to it by now, didn’t tease him about being on a diet anymore. Miles perched on a fence rail and tried to get the eating over with quick, away from his companions. He’d never realized how much harder swallowing was when your mouth was barely damp enough for you to speak and your digestive tract was dead--until it already was and he couldn’t appreciate having had what he did._ _ _ _

____Dead men don’t eat, and there’s a reason they don’t._ _ _ _

____He quit brooding for a second and glanced over at the guys, who were leaned up against the truck, laughing at something Dale, Suzanna’s husband, had said. Some days he wished he could join them--his sense of humor hadn’t died at Mount Massive--but. Well. The most anyone knew about him was that he was a journalist who’d gotten tired of the city and quit. Somehow, his name hadn’t gotten leaked with the whistleblower’s footage and nobody local’d figured out his reason for being here._ _ _ _

____Miles hoped to keep it that way. He was done. Letting stuff slip wasn’t exactly part of the plan._ _ _ _

____“Hey Miles,” Paul called, standing up and brushing grass off his knees._ _ _ _

____He grunted in response, still trying to get that first bite of sandwich down. Never thought he’d miss saliva._ _ _ _

____“Can you head back a little early and put the rest of the fence posts inside? Just realized we left ‘em out.”_ _ _ _

____“Sure thing,” he said, around the dry lump of food in his throat. He could go home, and have a long soak in a hot bubble bath. Fuck yeah._ _ _ _

____“Don’t choke there, son.” Paul glanced at the truck. “If you wanna ride back with Mrs. Everett, it’s easier’n walking.”_ _ _ _

____Oh no. He didn’t want to be alone in a car with Suzanna. With anybody. “You sure you don’t wanna go back early instead of me, Paul? I’m not too tired yet.”_ _ _ _

____The older man laughed. “You’re never tired, are you?”_ _ _ _

____Miles chuckled a bit in lieu of an answer. “Seriously, if you want to go, I can stay here.” He didn’t feed his freeloader nearly enough and it was already hard to resist in an open field with distractions like rebuilding a fence, but in a little truck cab? It’d already gotten him in trouble hitchhiking here two months ago. History wasn’t going to repeat itself. Miles wouldn’t let it._ _ _ _

____So he smiled, easy, and added, “Paul, you deserve a half day. Go on.”_ _ _ _

____*_ _ _ _

____Miles unlocked his front door, light from the sunset warming his back. He clenched his jaw, could already feel that fucking sandwich coming back up. Question he’d never posed: if you didn’t have a functional digestive system because some spooky nanites were providing the energy your cells needed to reproduce beyond the grave, where the hell did your food go?_ _ _ _

____That was a question answered every single day he worked._ _ _ _

____He barely made it to his little bathroom--hacked up a sticky ball of black into the sink, then took a deliberate breath and sighed through his nose._ _ _ _

____Miles rinsed his mouth out with some water and watched the viscous suspension of nanites trickle down the drain._ _ _ _

____*_ _ _ _

____Dead men don’t sleep. Miles was oddly grateful--it meant no nightmares. It also meant that his nights were long, and when he’d regained his faculties two months ago, it meant a lot of jumping at shadows and hiding in his pantry. That almost changed when he realized he housed the baddest predator of them all, _was_ the baddest predator of them all, but most of his nights were still spent shaking under the bed. A rotting brain didn’t listen to reason._ _ _ _

____When he got restless like tonight, though, hurling himself out into the open air was the only solution. He didn’t need to breathe, but inhaling the night was comforting, and he could burn the parasite’s hunger into restless exhaustion; it was easier to handle than the Swarm looking through his eyes and seeing prey where Miles saw people. There was a dirt road behind his house, one he followed often, one he followed tonight because there was a stirring in his bones and not enough self-control left in him to stay inside. If anyone had ever seen him these past months out in the woods at night, down the road past the cornfields among all the odd and otherworldly glimmers of the Swarm, they’d stayed quiet._ _ _ _

____Miles started down the road from the little house, loose gravel crunching under the heavy fall of his boots. He didn’t need a flashlight and moved through the clear dark like a spectre; above him, the stars were mostly obscured by packed-in clouds._ _ _ _

____Heat lightning briefly illuminated the whispering corn. Some days, Miles wished he were more sensitive to temperature, never thought he’d miss feeling 80 degree nights like he did now. It wasn’t a terrible loss, but it cemented the chill of his flesh more than even death could._ _ _ _

____He wondered if he’d feel more emotion about it if he weren’t a corpse._ _ _ _

____The fences broke down around this point in the road and the trees started up, old spindly things draped in Spanish moss and dilapidated squirrel nests. Miles stretched, more out of habit than need. Static crept in at the edges of his brain. Pinpricks of black gathered behind his skin and his muscles burned suddenly._ _ _ _

____The sound of animals scattering, scrabbling loud in their insistence on escaping._ _ _ _

____Miles tried not to smirk. He wasn’t here for them, but it was nice to have the recognition._ _ _ _

____A wave of pleasant burn rolled down to his toes and he picked up his pace. He lengthened his strides and he ran, nanites bursting from his pores, streaming from his open mouth, weighting his bones so his footfalls would jar enough feeling into him for the parasite to feel the running too. Miles tasted blood and laughed._ _ _ _

____The wind picked up. Lightning flashed again and his shadow went stark against the rotting leaves._ _ _ _

____He felt his knees click, felt the ground shock up through his legs into his hips. Yes yes _yes,_ this was something he’d needed. _They’d_ needed._ _ _ _

____Rain on his face. The Walrider rushed in him, screamed joy and static and beautiful, terrible bloodlust._ _ _ _

____It was these nights, with the white-out flash of lightning irradiating the black-bone-clutch of trees around him, that The Swarm-and-Miles transcended their rotting host body and swelled into the air like a god._ _ _ _

____The Swarm-and-Miles howled, hysterical heaving laughs pouring from a cracked throat. They laughed and they couldn’t stop._ _ _ _

____*_ _ _ _

____He got in just before dawn to shower. A small tug in him made him wish he’d had the forethought to leave time for a soak in the tub, but people who had to be at work in a half hour couldn’t crack open the new bubble bath under the sink. Miles grimaced. He’d really been looking forward to that._ _ _ _

____The Walrider sniffed around his ears, whispering an echo of **starving, starving** when it caught him paying attention._ _ _ _

____Miles grit his teeth and scrubbed off. “Quit fucking drooling. I’ll feed you later.”_ _ _ _

____Was it his imagination, or did the Swarm seem almost petulant?_ _ _ _

____...Did it matter? He rolled his eyes, turned the shower off, handle squeaking, and dried off. Miles stretched out and scratched a flaky spot on his shoulder. He poked at the crusty, blackened holes in his skin. A fat drop of black rolled down his torso. Miles blinked at it for a second, then came to his damn senses and wiped up with a towel._ _ _ _

____Work clothes were next: thick jeans, T-shirt--just because he wasn’t bothered by the heat didn’t mean other people weren’t, and imitation made his life easier--big muddy boots._ _ _ _

____**starving, miles. starving.** _ _ _ _

____Didn’t need to breathe, but heaving a huge sigh was cathartic._ _ _ _

____The screen door slammed behind him. Miles didn’t bother locking the door--anything worth stealing he kept in his truck, and it was easy enough to hunt down a thief later. Hell, getting robbed would mean he wouldn’t have to go to the city to feed the Walrider. A sudden huff of laughter he was surprised to hear come from himself._ _ _ _

____He swung into the car and started up the engine. He missed his Jeep, suspected he would always miss that thing. Miles’d had it since his seventeenth birthday. Yet another thing Mount Massive took from him._ _ _ _

____The thought had his hand drifting towards the radio dial. Maybe some loud music would shake him out of his head. He punched the knob--some classic rock started up--and leaned back in his seat. Not too terrible of a morning._ _ _ _

____Miles turned the corner at Fleming and started wobbling down a dirt track, gravel pinging his rims. Lucky enough, his address was close to work, maybe half a mile away at most. The best thing he could say about this town was that it was convenient. Everything was close together: the buildings, the farms...the people. It made him ache, a little bit._ _ _ _

____The sky was just starting to turn pastel when he pulled into Dale’s front lot._ _ _ _

____**we would settle for their nightmares.** _ _ _ _

____“Be quiet,” he muttered, and got out of his car to wait for the other men to arrive._ _ _ _

____Dale was sitting on his front porch with a large mug of coffee, stubbly cheeks stretched in a yawn._ _ _ _

____“Morning,” he called to his boss._ _ _ _

____“Morning, Miles!”_ _ _ _

____Not for the first time, he considered that giving them his real name wasn’t the smartest thing he’d ever done. Blame desperation and a brain that hadn’t worked in months. “What’s on the schedule today?”_ _ _ _

____“Not much. Paul’s daughter’s coming out to learn what her dad does while she’s at school during the year.”_ _ _ _

____“Oh yeah?” He’d never met the kid, but Paul talked about her a lot._ _ _ _

____“Yeah. I dunno when they’ll get in; he says the girl’s not much for waking up early.”_ _ _ _

____Miles felt a few thousand nanites attempt to escape from his left pantleg. He tapped the toe of his boot against the dirt. _Don’t y’all fucking dare._ “Harlan and Ernie are still on schedule though, right?”_ _ _ _

____Dale nodded. “You want some coffee, son?”_ _ _ _

____The only time Dale called him “son” was when he was real nervous about something. He resisted the urge to ask what was up, deciding it would be easier to wait and see what the guy was nervous about instead of questioning him. Dale got defensive easily. “No, thanks. Got up early, made my own.”_ _ _ _

____He raised his mug. “You’re really missing out. Suzanna started buying this new brand and even I can’t screw it up.”_ _ _ _

____Was the small talk really necessary? Miles knew he unsettled the man. Not for no reason, too._ _ _ _

____Dale tossed him a water bottle. “Speaking of missing out, you didn’t have one of these yesterday. I kept thinking you were gonna drop.”_ _ _ _

____Shit! How could he forget something like that? “Thanks.” Probably a good idea to continue the chatter. “Yeah, the air was wet enough I don’t think I needed it.”_ _ _ _

____A chuckle, but it sounded more polite than entertained._ _ _ _

____Miles used to be really good at talking to people. Then he’d died._ _ _ _

____Ernie’s beat-up little Honda pulled up, saving him from having to make any more conversation. The sky brightened incrementally._ _ _ _

____*_ _ _ _

____Suzanna’s truck came rolling down the hill sometime around eight and delivered Paul and his kid, Mirabelle. Long name for such a little kid, but it’d give her something to live up to._ _ _ _

____She was cute. Looked about six, with wavy blonde hair and a gap-toothed grin. She had on little ladybug rain boots and a windbreaker with dinosaurs printed on it--reminded Miles of his young cousins._ _ _ _

____He shut that thought down._ _ _ _

____“Alright Belle,” Paul was saying, as they walked over, “don’t wander off. There’re lots of coyotes out here.”_ _ _ _

____“Are they on summer too?”_ _ _ _

____The man grinned. It made his face look less haggard. “Yeah, I think they’re on summer break, kiddo.”_ _ _ _

____“I wanna see where all the baby coyotes go to school, Papa!”_ _ _ _

____“It’ll be closed, now. They’re probably cleaning it.” He glanced up at the men, who’d stopped their post-digging to wave._ _ _ _

____Mirabelle forgot their conversation to run up to Dale and hug him around the knee. He patted her head. “Heya, Missy. How’re you doing this fine morning?”_ _ _ _

____Miles tried not to watch too closely. It was dredging up feelings that resembled loss a bit too much for his comfort. He hadn’t seen his family in too long and fuck, he’d almost forgotten how much he missed them. Too bad he couldn’t go home._ _ _ _

____A pattering whisper snaked around his ears._ _ _ _

____“Don’t even fucking think about it.”_ _ _ _

____The Swarm, nigh on invisible in the sunlight, regarded him quizzically._ _ _ _

____He inhaled, then exhaled, mostly to himself. “If you think you’re getting anywhere near any of them--”_ _ _ _

____**calm. down.** _ _ _ _

____Mirabelle had transferred herself to Harlan’s leg. He was swinging her around on his foot. Ernie scooped her up next, cackling, and spun her upside down. She squealed and laughed. Miles felt something like a wistful grin creep up on his face._ _ _ _

____Finally, the little girl noticed Miles--but not just Miles. She looked over his shoulder, and her eyes got real wide, and he felt his stomach drop through his feet. He gave her a smile, then crouched down to her level, hoping to distract her. “Hi Mirabelle. My name’s Miles. I’ve heard a lot about you from your pops.”_ _ _ _

____“You have a friend,” she said, looking more interested than afraid. Holy fuck. Was she seeing-- “He’s all buzzy.”_ _ _ _

____At least she wasn’t gonna run away screaming. But the guys all looked a little too concerned, like it wasn’t normal for this kid to just make up imaginary friends that could explain away the Walrider. Just his luck._ _ _ _

____Miles made a show of looking over his shoulder. “Oh, him?” Now they were all staring at him. Fuck. He tried to look deep in thought so they’d think he was improvising. “Yeah, that’s...my friend. He’s really shy, though, so he _won’t be sticking around._ ” He hoped the stupid thing would get the point._ _ _ _

____A flicker of amusement filtered through his skull._ _ _ _

____Mirabelle turned and ran back over to Paul. “Can I go play?”_ _ _ _

____The man looked at her and smiled softly. “Just stay in sight.”_ _ _ _

____She giggled and took off. Miles could make out the barest outline following her. He didn’t trust the Swarm with this kid for one second, but he was pretty sure it only listened to him when it was convenient for it._ _ _ _

____Paul’s smile slid into a grin, though there was still some uneasiness behind his eyes. “She has a great imagination, don’t she? I keep hoping she’ll go into something creative when she grows up.”_ _ _ _

____Even Dale looked placated._ _ _ _

____Miles resigned himself to keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of trouble._ _ _ _

____**hurting her would be counterproductive.** _ _ _ _

____“Why don’t I believe you?” he said through his teeth._ _ _ _

____Sharp amusement rushed through Miles’ head. **you act like that makes a difference.**_ _ _ _

____Well, fuck._ _ _ _

____*_ _ _ _

____“So tell me again why you played with her,” he muttered, jamming the post-digger into the dry ground._ _ _ _

____**we thought she would be propitiated by our involvement.** _ _ _ _

____“Funny choice of word, there.”_ _ _ _

____A chuckle. The Walrider hadn’t quite gotten the cadence right yet. **not particularly. children are holy.**_ _ _ _

____He hmmed and squeezed the handle, drawing up a cylinder of dirt. The other guys were taking a water break, and Mirabelle was reading a picture book with the Walrider peering over her shoulder. Miles got the sense it was still looking at him, though._ _ _ _

____He sighed, and cracked open the bottle Dale’d given him that morning. Had to keep up appearances. Funnily enough, he did need water. Just not often. And too much tended to make him feel weak. He took a sip, wiped some imaginary sweat from around his temples. Leaned on the post-digger._ _ _ _

____Suzanna’s truck rumbled up; was it lunchtime already? Miles didn’t feel like checking the time, so he just shrugged inwardly and ambled over to the food with a sigh._ _ _ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot happens.

I mothed  
my self. I cleaved apart.

A soul can hide like a moth on bark.  
_My born name keeps but I don’t say._

_Moth_  
_Atsuro Riley_

 

Miles stretched out on his bed. Dust tickled his lips.

**starving**

“Later.”

**now.**

“I don’t want to go anywhere right now.” Especially since he couldn’t take his truck. If anyone saw it missing from the driveway on the same day someone went missing from the city--well, it was unlikely they’d make a connection, but being overcautious was preferable to being reckless. It was why Miles hadn’t canceled his credit cards like his first instinct had said. He just buried them by the side of the highway. Nobody would know he was around to cancel them.

 **we dont want to be hungry right now,** the Swarm said, almost mocking him.

He rolled his eyes. “If we leave now, we won’t get back until like, three AM.” Miles made the mistake of glancing over at the thing--if its face had features, he’d swear it was giving him a flat look. “I don’t feel like being out that late. It’s suspicious.”

**more suspicious than murder in broad daylight?**

It had a point. “Why do you need to kill them, anyway? Can’t you just, I dunno, stalk them while they sleep and eat their nightmares or whatever that way?”

He could feel its eyes on him. **no.** Something about its tone implied that it thought he was stupid for asking.

A long, long silence.

Miles groaned. “Just gimme a second to get changed and we’ll go, okay?”

*

The train station wasn’t well-lit, and there weren’t many people still milling around. Miles thought that if he still scared easily he might’ve called the atmosphere creepy. The thought made him smile. The low ceiling of the ticket booth made the grin melt right from his face.

He knew the sudden anxiety didn’t show on his face; he’d channeled it into the white-knuckle grip he had on the ticket.

This train better not be crowded.

*

Miles could feel a wash through his limbs as he walked--stalked--down the sidewalk. A dark prickle began behind his skin, and suddenly he was aware of just how hungry the Swarm was. He worried his lower lip with his teeth. This sort of hunting wasn’t difficult and didn’t bother him in the least; the Walrider danced him like a marionette for six months and attracted a lot of Murkoff’s tac team to St. Louis. These people knew what kind of monsters they were protecting, now that everything was out, and they still tried to carry out orders. Miles had very little sympathy for people like that, so it didn’t bother him.

At first he’d been worried that the company would find him. And they did, but they sent small groups to collect him, not larger forces. So he kept killing them. The people whose dying nightmares the Walrider devoured all vanished in the same place, and police turned up sprays of blood and scattered organs every other week. Nobody they couldn’t handle appeared in the city. While that made him nervous, as they had to be planning something, he wasn’t about to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.

He couldn’t see the stars and wasn’t sure if that was comforting or not.

“Find us someone terrible,” he murmured to the Swarm. It perked up. “Hm?”

**murkoff tactical.**

Miles passed a group of people, late-night partiers probably, before he spoke again. “Where?”

A pause. **to our left.**

“Then we get them alone.” No response. Miles had expected as much. He skirted the edge of an orange pool of light and tried to find some private spot where the Walrider could tear these people apart.

Then he sensed some uneasiness from his parasite.

“What?” he muttered through his teeth.

**we are disquieted.**

“I know that. What about?”

 **we dont know why theyre following us still. they have to know that theyre being led. this does not seem wise, miles.** It paused. **they may be leading _us._**

“What do you want me to do, then?”

**lose them. we are concerned by what their intentions might be. this does not seem wise.**

“I thought you were hungry.”

**not hungry enough to risk this.**

Huh. 

The streets were mostly empty. Up in front of him, a traffic light changed from red to green to red to yellow without any cars passing in the road. It unnerved him just a bit--this was a city. There should be cars. There should be more people.

Miles stopped for a second. “This is really giving you the willies, huh?”

The Walrider didn’t deign to reply.

He rolled his eyes and made to keep walking, but footsteps raced up close--and before he could look, someone barreled into him. He staggered to the side, off-balance and confused.

“Upshur, you’re Miles Upshur, right?” said a small man breathlessly, detaching himself from Miles’ jacket, but still holding his lapels. His confusion mounted.

Recognition flared from the Walrider. **we know him.**

“Who’re you?” he asked, glancing around to see if the tac team had moved in yet.

“Waylon Park. And you’re Miles Upshur?”

The fucker who’d sent him the email. He grit his teeth and broke out of Park’s hold. Even after those six possessed months, the guy was still on the news--face blurred for his protection--and it wasn’t hard for Miles to extrapolate where that email had come from. The trial had been very public. “Yeah.”

“I sent you--”

“The email, yeah. Why are you here?”

“I saw a few guys in tac gear off to your eight o’clock.”

“Were you looking for me?”

“Yeah.” Park’s gaze darted to the left. “Can we talk about this somewhere else?”

The Walrider butted in, still just a voice in Miles’ head. **nobody likes a whistleblower.** In other words, Park was in danger too, being out here. Ugh.

He had to decide fast. He clenched his fists. “Yeah, Park, we can.”

*

The diner was, appropriately, every cliche about a 24-hour restaurant on a night shift: fluorescent-lit, grubby floors, tired servers, burnt coffee. It made Miles think of cities larger and colder than St. Louis and long evenings-turned-mornings spent going through other people’s paper trails. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and watched Park yawn.

“You wanted to talk?” he said.

The other man took a quick sip of coffee and seemed unfazed by its taste. “Yeah. Did you know those guys were following you?”

“Yeah. Why were you after me?”

“I’m sure you heard about the trial.” It’d ended a month ago, with a lot of Murkoff staff in jail. The hell was he talking about? 

Park scrubbed a hand over his face--it wasn’t the most remarkable of faces, or it wouldn’t be, but the Engine had chewed on him and Miles could see the scarring on his sharp cheekbones, vertical through his lips, peeking out from behind prematurely-silvering hair he’d let get long. It wasn’t just his face. His eyes held something too alive. It made Miles shiver. “We need another witness.” For a trial that ended? Now Miles was interested in what was really happening.

Best to not put up any pretense about the Incident, though. “So you know I was there.” The ‘at Mount Massive’ was clear enough. 

A nod. “I uh, I took your car. It had your press pass hanging from the rearview.”

Oh. “ _You_ stole my car?”

“I kinda needed it,” he said, leveling a flat stare Miles’ way. “Didn’t realize you’d survived until your name popped up a month ago. I would’ve thought a Variant or the--something else would’ve gotten to you.”

It was obvious from the hiccup--and from the lie--Park knew more than he was letting on. Miles wasn’t patient enough to coax it out of him. “By ‘something’ do you mean the tac teams or do you mean the Walrider?”

Park blanched, then tried to cover the way his stare’d gone glassy by drinking more coffee.

“It’s not your business either way, Park.”

“I just need you to come testify. You’d be the final nail in the coffin.”

He finally decided it was best to just call him out. “Isn’t that case over?”

A sigh. “Fuck.” Park’s eyes looked tired. “Look, Miles. I wanted to meet you. To apologize.”

“Uh-huh.” Really. Why would anyone let the whistleblower leave unprotected? Why would they let him leave at all? Wasn’t his safety too important to let him go talk to some nobody the press didn’t know about? Why had he lied in the first place?

“It’s not the main reason I’m here, but it is a reason. Can we talk more about it when we’re not about to die?”

Miles recognized the bloody hollow in his gaze and he realized they might be more similar than first impressions gave. He decided to give Park the benefit of the doubt, for now, and try to figure out his intentions later. He risked a glance out the window. “I’m not sure we’re in the clear yet.”

**theyre waiting.**

“No shit,” he muttered into his coffee.

“What?” Park asked.

“Nothing. Everything’s fine, except the second we come out of here they’ll start shooting.”

A tense nod. “So what do we do?”

Miles bit the inside of his cheek. Not enough to be painful, just to give his teeth something to do. “I don’t know.” How much was safe to tell Park? The fewer people who knew about the Walrider, the better--though maybe his slipup really did mean he already knew? He gritted his teeth.

“We can make it to my car if we’re quick.”

Something about that set off alarm bells in his head. Miles had to think for a moment to figure out what they were getting at, since his freeloader was occupied with staring out the window and couldn’t just make things easy for him. “Which one of us were they after?”

Park ripped open a packet of sugar. “Hm?”

“Which one of us were they after originally? Because if it was you, they’ll be staking out your car.”

“If it was you, they’ll be waiting by your car.”

“I got here by train.”

“Does it matter?”

“Maybe,” Miles said.

“Would they make a scene at a train station?” 

Miles truly didn’t know. He didn’t have to--Park kept talking.

“I don’t think they would. Murkoff wouldn’t want to make a scene that would get back anywhere...” Was he just talking to himself now? “We have to go back to the car, though.”

That sounded dumb. “Why?”

“My stuff is in there.”

“Is it stuff that can be replaced?”

A crease formed between his brows. “Mostly? But my laptop...”

“Does it have anything important on it?”

He nodded, and drained his cup.

Well shit. “Okay, so we have to go to the car.” He sucked in his cheeks. Fuck it. “Let’s go.”

“What?”

Miles stood and left his emergency ten on the table. “Let’s go, Park.”

“Now?? Didn’t we just decide they’re going to kill us?”

“We’ll go out the back.”

**watching the back.**

“Okay asshole,” Miles said, maybe a little too loud, “What do you suggest we do?”

“I don’t have to have a plan to know yours is stupid--and who’re you calling an asshole?”

“Not you, Park.”

“Then who’re you talking to?” He was looking at him like he was checking for an earpiece.

If it would’ve done anything, Miles would have taken a deep breath. Instead, he ignored him and waited for the Swarm to elaborate.

**one.**

“Which way’s safer?”

Park looked at him again, but thankfully said nothing.

**back.**

He whispered this time. “Then we didn’t need to go through this, did we?”

“Seriously Miles, who the hell are you talking to?”

“We’re going out the back. Safer route.”

Miles saw a muscle in Park’s jaw jump. “What the fuck?”

“Calm down. We survive, I’ll explain.” They should probably just make a run for the ‘Staff Only’ door. “Go through the kitchen?”

“Seems sensible.” He sighed through his nose. “You think they’re watching the back?”

Miles let out a quiet chuckle. “I bet they are. C’mon, Park.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, they're fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a couple days early because I'm moving over the next week or two. Lemme know if y'all are enjoying so far ^^

_...great civilizations have broken down into violence,_  
_and their tyrants come, many times before._  
_When open violence appears, to avoid it with honor or choose_  
_the least ugly faction; these evils are essential._  
_...and [do] not be duped_  
_By dreams of universal justice or happiness. These dreams will_  
_not be fulfilled._

_The Answer_  
_Robinson Jeffers_

 

~

Waylon followed Miles Upshur to the kitchen, teeth sunk in his lip. He thought he should be more nervous than he was, but fearing for his life didn’t come as easily as it used to. His leg ached where it weighed on the prosthetic.

His eyes were acting up again, afterimages from the Engine flashing across his vision. Why now?

He decided he could be confused later.

Upshur opened the door; its hinges squeaked and the lone fry cook up at this hour gave them the hairy eyeball. Funnily enough, he said nothing, just kept prepping for the breakfast crew. Maybe this was the kind of diner where a lot of people went out through the kitchen. 

They stopped at the back door.

“You ready, Park?”

What was he gonna say, no? “Yeah.”

“Stay behind me.”

Did this idiot think Waylon was incapable of defending himself? Besides, what was Upshur gonna do, shield him? Even if the man could somehow do that and stay alive, a soft body didn’t stop bullets. It wasn’t like the movies--at a high caliber, even car doors couldn’t protect you. He decided not to answer with any of that, though. Correcting Upshur’s sad and frankly dangerous misconceptions could wait, though, until they made it out of this. If they made it out of this.

Upshur opened the door. Waylon caught a startling flash of smile, heard him mutter something he couldn’t quite make out.

The light from the kitchen fell on a rotting cardboard box and a trash can off to his left. The door closed. Black.

A sound like a firework echoed through the side street and Waylon felt adrenaline bubble up into his throat. Shit.

He dove for the trash can; if it wouldn’t stop a shot, it’d at least slow it down. His head felt squeezed from the sound.

Where was Upshur? He didn’t dare poke his head out from behind the metal but he didn’t see the journalist anywhere, and this was the only cover--

He realized suddenly that his ears might be ringing, but the air was silent again.

A hand, missing its index finger, stuck itself in front of his face. “We should get going. Before the other two realize nobody’s radioed in to tell ‘em _why_ he stopped shooting.” His voice sounded distant, like Waylon was hearing him through an earful of water, but it was Upshur. He took the hand, let Upshur help him up.

They didn’t run, but they moved fast down to the end of the side street, where it let out onto a main road. 

“Where’s your car?”

Waylon had to think for a second, but he recognized the cross-street.

*

It didn’t look like the tac team was staking out his car.

He dug around in his pockets for his keys, his back to the sedan’s door. “I--I can’t find them. I know I had them--”

Upshur interrupted him by swinging the side of his fist into the driver’s side window. Safety glass sprayed in an arc and the alarm started screaming. “You got thirty seconds to grab your shit and run, Park,” he shouted, over the noise. 

Waylon reached in and unlocked the door. He jumped in, pulled open the glove compartment and grabbed his laptop, then his cane from the back seat.

Boots on the ground. He looked up, saw two men splitting up. Fuck! Whether they were staking out the car was irrelevant--they were coming now. A bullet whizzed past his ear and his breath caught in his throat. 

He fell to the side and rolled under the car, scraped his chin on the pavement. Bright, stinging pain. The laptop clattered somewhere in front of him--he couldn’t see anything but the pulsing behind his eyes and some kind of black liquid reflecting the street lights. His teeth chattered, tension drawing his jaw tight.

Shots sounded muffled from either side of him. Waylon’s grip tightened on his cane. Wouldn’t be hard to hit someone with it if--

He heard a scream from behind him--was it Miles? saw boots walk around the side of the car and cast shadows on his own face. Something black dripped behind them.

Another flash of Rorschach across his vision. A low whine started in his head.

Waylon bit his tongue, tasted blood, and the boots went toe-to-toe with the member of Murk tactical--

The shots were going and going until the click-click-click of an empty magazine and a finger still pulling the trigger hit Waylon’s ears. A sickening crack.

The last man from the tac team dropped, glinting-glazed eyes fixed right on him. His head was at an odd angle--dead. Waylon swallowed revulsion and felt satisfaction sharp-edged in his throat instead.

It was over?

The person who could only be Upshur crouched down by the side of the car. “You can come out now, Park.” Again, that hand with its missing finger reached out to him. He wondered how the other man’d lost it.

He took the hand. 

“It occurs to me that someone might call the cops,” the journalist said, picking up Waylon’s laptop.

He didn’t know what to focus on. “You killed--yeah. We should get moving.”

Upshur flashed him a grin that would’ve been handsome if it weren’t for the bite in his eyes. “We can’t take the car. They know what it looks like.”

Waylon swore, but grabbed his duffle from the trunk and, as an afterthought, took a pack of gum from the driver’s side, still wincing from the noise of the alarm. 

He turned from the body in front of him to the corpse behind him. It seemed like the shadows had grown more pronounced around it, even though there was light shining directly on it... Wait. That wasn’t shadow, not really. That was a dark mist. A familiar dark mist. With it came another flash and a hum--more of the Engine resurfacing.

Waylon felt his blood run icy and he jolted. “Miles, we have to run.”

“Hm? Yeah, we do. Cops. We went over this.” the man sounded utterly unconcerned. Did he not see it?? That thing was--he was sure it was what people were calling the Walrider. It had to be. He’d seen it before. In flashes, never close up, but he’d seen it.

“Miles, look at what I’m looking at, and--”

“I am, Park. I know what you’re seeing. It won’t hurt you.”

Waylon whirled to face him, saw that oily black soaking his shirt, finally saw the _bullet holes_ in the fabric. “Holy shit. What are you?”

He laughed. “Human. Probably.” He tried to wipe some of the dark mess off his clothes. “Seriously though. Nothing’s gonna hurt you unless you deserve it.”

Waylon swallowed. All those news reports of people splattered on street corners, eyewitnesses saying something about a shadow--the shadow he’d seen at Mount Massive--leaving the scene. The dark figure he’d seen. They’d stopped when Upshur had popped up in Missouri.

“You think you deserve it? This thing,” he nodded to what could only be Project Walrider, “doesn’t seem to agree. I’d say you’re safe for now.”

“I...When did--”

“Can we talk on the way to the train station?” Upshur--the Walrider? He frowned suddenly, and took a step into Waylon’s space. Waylon backed up into the car. “Chill, Park. I just wanna see your chin for a second. It’s bleeding.”

He’d barely noticed.

At his silence, Upshur shrugged. “Okay. Whatever.” He looked at the mist currently surrounding the corpse. “Are you done?” A pause, and he nodded, started walking.  
Waylon made the decision to follow, but a safe distance behind. It was among the dumber things he’d done, but shit, Upshur had his laptop tucked under one arm and he wasn’t about to try to grab it when he could hear sirens getting close.

He kept a close watch on the other man and leaned on his cane more heavily than he would’ve liked to.

“The abridged version,” the journalist started, “is that this fucker needs a host like a fucking tapeworm, and I killed the first one.”

He felt his eyebrows drift upwards. “What?”

“I took the guy off life support because Wernicke told me it’d kill the Walrider.”

“...Wernicke? He died what, ten years ago?”

“Nah, the first host was keeping him alive.” Upshur moved a little faster. “Used the Walrider.”

“How does that work?” They turned a corner, and Waylon realized he didn’t know where said Walrider had gone. That was...disconcerting.

“All I could gather from what I found is that it hijacks cell reproduction to build nanites.” His voice turned bitter. “They turned the consumer into the means of production. So I guess it took over his cells, or something.” Upshur stopped, turned to face him. “Didn’t you work for them? You should know this.”

“I...I only did software consult.”

The journalist hmmed and studied him for a moment. He felt his scalp prickle. “You’re dripping.”

“What?”

“You’re bleeding, Park.” He pulled his sleeve over his hand. “Can I see?”

This guy reminded him of something. He sighed through his nose. “Sure.”

Upshur got close and put two cold fingers on his jaw. They weren’t quite gentle when he tilted up Waylon’s head, and he could actually feel some pain when the sleeve swiped across his chin. “You wanna carry your laptop?”

“Uh.”

*

They got on a train without much event. Waylon didn’t care where it was headed, but Upshur told him before they got on. They were going...to where he lived.

“Are you sure?” Waylon asked.

“Hah, no. It’d just be a shitty thing to do, to leave you out here.”

“Aren’t you angry at me?” He wet his lips, anxious. “I sent you that email.”

“You didn’t hurt people.”

“I did.”

Upshur leaned back in his seat, a concession. “Yeah, you did. But you also tried to stop it, and that makes you at least not worth leaving alone in the street for reinforcements to shoot through the head.”

Waylon didn’t know what to say to that.

*

The house was old, really too small to be a house, and it smelled like stale air and dark spaces.

“You can lie low here for a bit if you want, Park.”

He glanced at Upshur, who was currently locking the door. “Aren’t you worried they’ll find us here?” He suppressed a yawn.

“Always, but I figure it’s just more for the Walrider to eat.” He turned, and met Waylon’s eyes. Waylon suppressed a shudder. “You’re safe.” 

Waylon felt his stomach cramp. “Is there anything for _me_ to eat?”

“Uh. Supermarket opens at nine.” Upshur had the courtesy to look apologetic, at least. “I’d make the grocery run for you, but I have to be at work in,” he checked his watch, “three hours.”

Working on that little sleep was going to be painful. He felt a rush of sympathy for the man--the other part of him just wanted to collapse. “Can’t you call in sick?”

Upshur shrugged. “I’ll be fine.” He frowned for a second and gestured through a doorway. “Bedroom’s that way. Bed’s a little dusty but as far as I know it’s clean. Get some rest, Park. I don’t think we’ll be here for long.”

Waylon wasn’t sure exactly how much of that he was supposed to question (“as far as I know”?? Upshur used the bed, right? and why was there no food in the apartment?), but he was too exhausted to care and shuffled off after a moment of thought.

The bed _was_ dusty, but he collapsed on it all the same.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miles’ phone buzzed in his pocket, and he stuck his hammer through his belt loop. He checked the caller ID.
> 
> “What’s up, Park?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think about Miles' family a lot.
> 
> Chapter is, again, up early, because I'm moving and I have prior obligations on Thursday. Enjoy!

4

 _It is not bad.  Let them play._  
_Let the guns bark and the bombing-plane_  
_Speak his prodigious blasphemies._  
_It is not bad, it is high time,_  
_Stark violence is still the sire of all the world’s values._

_The Bloody Sire_  
_Robinson Jeffers_

~

**they had to know we would kill them. they cant have been here to collect us.**

“Then what the hell did they want?” Miles was glad he didn’t have to speak loud over the roaring water from the tap. 

**that is whats disturbing us.** The Walrider went silent after that.

He sank into the bubbly foam and enjoyed the warmth for a minute. If it was warm to him, it was probably scalding--and sure enough, his skin was turning that odd shade of purple it did when the nanites heated up.

Miles submerged himself under the water and imagined he could hide behind the foam. His instincts told him to _come up, come up,_ but he stayed. Microscopic machines gathered his oxygen for him now. The Walrider might keep his lungs from rotting, but it didn’t bother with functionality.

He sat up anyway. When then water ran from his ears, he could hear rustling blankets. Park had taken his advice.

Good.

Miles wasn’t sure how he felt about him, but he couldn’t have just left him for the tac team to pick off later. Besides--he was a little curious as to why Park was really here. And it wasn’t like Park could kill him.

Though--he should probably catch the man before he drifted off. He stood and tied a towel around his waist, then padded out of his bathroom and into what technically should be his bedroom.

Park looked up, still getting comfortable. “Yeah?”

Miles took a ballpoint pen and a pad of paper from the nightstand drawer, and sat on the end of his bed. “Here’s my cell number. I’m gonna leave soon, and that’s how you reach me, okay?” He copied it down, ripped the paper off, and handed it to Park. “There’s cash under the couch cushions. If anyone asks, you’re a college friend catching up with me.”

A long pause. “Do you need to tell me anything else, or can I go to sleep?”

Miles rolled his eyes and left to get dressed.

*

Miles’ phone buzzed in his pocket, and he stuck his hammer through his belt loop. He checked the caller ID.

“What’s up, Park?”

“I have an alert set up. Murkoff knows you’re conscious in there.”

Miles’ knees suddenly felt weak. “How do you know?”

“System wasn’t hard to break into, so I did. A while ago. They sent out a message.”

He glanced up at everyone working around him. They were talking, but they were still too close for privacy; he moved a distance away. “They thought I wasn’t conscious?”

“They assumed you were just an empty meat suit. Said you were dead, Miles.”

“I’d rather talk about that in person.”

A sigh. “Anyway, I’m not sure how they found out. Might’ve seen us and radioed--no, wait. It looks like an anonymous report came in yesterday? Both? Either way, we’re probably fucked.”

If Miles breathed habitually, he would’ve stopped right then. He must’ve done something to--no. It was the Walrider. It was the kid who could see it, Mirabelle. She’d mentioned it and one of the men had recognized something. But how, and who--

“So I can’t tell what they’re gonna do, but if you could get back here before something happens I’d appreciate it.”

“They know where the house is?”

“Yeah. It looks like there are orders not to go right now, but it could change.” A pause. “Oh, shit.”

“What, are they coming here now?”

“No. They want you, but they need leverage so you won’t slaughter them.” A pause. “They’ll be going after someone close to you, once they find out who that is.”

Miles knew. “My mother.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure enough,” he growled.

“Shit.”

He felt...odd. It’d been so long since he’d actually been worked up about something that he’d forgotten what rage felt like, but this was definitely it. He could feel it in the creak of his clenched jaw, the sudden static of the Swarm, the curling of his toes in his boots. How dare they. They’d taken so much from him, tied him to the asylum forever, they’d _killed him,_ and now they were trying to take his mother from him? No. They wouldn’t get away with it.

“Miles, what’s all that static?”

He ended the call and shoved his phone back in his pocket. First thing: find who tipped off Murkoff and rip out their spines. He’d find Park later. The monster who’d just put his family in danger was going to die. The Swarm seemed to wake, to expand. It was well-fed and strong and The-Swarm-and-Miles would tear apart anyone who meant their mother harm--

No. Miles shook himself. He would waste an obscene amount of time--he had to get to her before Murkoff did. 

He made his way over to Dale and the others. “I have to head out early, Dale,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “Family emergency.”

The man looked up from the post digger he was fixing. “I’m sorry to hear that. You goin’ out of town?”

He nodded. “Not sure when I’ll be back.”

Dale looked concerned. “Okay. You take care.”

*

Miles didn’t have patience for keys, just kicked in the door. “Park!”

The sound of someone falling out of a chair in the kitchen. “Holy shit, don’t do that.”

“Park, how soon can we get out of here?”

“We?”

“You’re in Murkoff’s system. I need you. Besides,” he said, tracking mud on the floor, “you’re safer with me than with anyone else.”

Park was still on the floor when Miles got to the kitchen. His right pantleg was done up in a knot at his knee and there was...a prosthetic leaned against the wall across from him. Oh.

“Want me to grab you your leg?”

Park looked startled. “Uh, thanks.”

“We need to go.” He picked up the prosthetic and handed it over. “You get this at Mount Massive?”

A slightly bitter laugh. “Something like that.” Park buckled it on. “The report said they killed you.”

Miles gave him a hand up. “Yeah.”

“How are you alive, then?” Park closed his laptop and stuck it in its case.

He decided not to argue the finer points. “The Walrider needs a functional host. Anyway, how soon can we leave?”

“Give me ten minutes.”

Miles decided a change of clothes was in order, and after that was done he had a thought. He opened his closet and pushed aside the hangers. On a nail in the wall hung an old friend: the jacket. He couldn’t get the bloodstains out of it and by now they were even comforting. Might as well have a relic from the asylum if he was going to fuck with these monsters again.

He grabbed it and slung it around his shoulders, then sat by the splintered remains of the door and waited for Park to finish repacking.

*

The truck started first try. Park shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat and tugged at his seatbelt. “Where are we going?”

“San Francisco.”

_”San Francisco?”_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miles displays emotion; Waylon is unsettled; I still think about Miles' family way too much.

_For stronger than death or hempen noose are the fires of a dead man’s hate._   
_Dead Man’s Hate_   
_Robert Ervin Howard_

~

Waylon massaged his temples. The last ten miles had been nothing but farmland: corn, corn, corn, soy, corn. He fought the sleep weighing on his eyelids. He didn’t trust Upshur half as far as he could throw him and he wasn’t about to fall asleep in his presence. Especially because he could just barely make out a wisp of black trailing from his parted lips.  
A big cat. That’s what Upshur reminded Waylon of. A big cat with a lot of teeth and a certain fondness for playing with its food. The realization made the hair on the back of his neck rise. Of course, he’d deny his wariness to his dying day, but as he continued to rub his temples he knew that, on some disturbing levels, he’d missed it. He’d missed being scared. Fuck.

He heaved a sigh. Did he even have the energy to care about it? Probably not.

He’d have to tell his companion why he was really here, at some point. Waylon had his suspicions that the other man’d already guessed some of it, but. Honesty.

“Tell me again why we couldn’t just take a plane?” he asked.

“Tried it once. Nanites’ll set off the metal detector. I don’t even know what they’d do to those scanner things.”

Huh. That should’ve occurred to him.

“It’ll take us about a day and a half to get there. We’ll be fine as long as they don’t find her first.”

“It takes longer than that to drive cross country. We need to stop to sleep.”

“You can sleep while I drive, huh?”

“You need sleep too.”

Upshur’s lips twisted into a parody of a smile. “I don’t, actually. One of the perks of being the host.”

That...What? “That’s not--”

“As far as I know, I haven’t slept since they killed me. That was eight months ago.”

“But you’re alive now, and. And.” Waylon supposed that in a world where the dead could come back to life, it wasn’t so implausible. “Is it really the Walrider doing that?”

Upshur laughed and kept his eyes fixed on the empty road in front of them. There was no humor in him. 

Waylon’s hands slowly went cold. He chewed the inside of his cheek. Something was wrong here. He was missing something.

“The seat reclines. There’s a lever by the door.”

“Miles...” He started. But what could he say? He pushed back the seat and turned on his side.

*

They moved from farmland to places which were less obviously cultivated, to farmland again. Run-down houses and properties where, even as they passed, Waylon could feel something conscious staring from windows long since broken. He would have chalked it up to his imagination, but he’d stopped being able to get away with that and consequences were a bitch.

Upshur in the driver’s seat was a terrifying portrait of focus; Waylon thought the windshield would crack under his stare. The truck rolled on.

*

It turned out that he didn’t have to bring up the real reason he was here. Upshur did that for him somewhere in Wyoming while the odd, reddened plateaus whizzed by out the window.

And then he waited while Waylon decided how much was safe to tell him.

“I...” He bit his lip. “My lawyer was on Murkoff’s payroll.”

Bright sky passed overhead. “Yeah?”

“She tried to find out where my family is.”

“Can’t you go to the police?”

Something bitter on the tip of his tongue. It made him want to hiss. “I love my wife, I love my kids, and they’re not safe until Murkoff is fucking gone. I thought the law could do that. I was wrong.” He fiddled with his seatbelt. “After the case ended I thought we were safe but they’re trying to find my family so they have to still be out there--” He broke off when it became clear he was going to hyperventilate if he kept going.

“That’s a good reason to come find me.”

“I just thought whoever was killing all those people like the Walrider did...I thought they could help. And you never moved. So I came to find you.”

“Well, I guess I can wipe out Murkoff if you want. Got nothing better to do.”

Waylon didn’t realize he was so nervous until he felt the knots in his shoulders release. “Thank you.”

Upshur shrugged.

“Can I...Why didn’t you go after them sooner?”

Upshur hesitated for a brief moment. “It’s only been two months since I got my mind back. I needed to settle.” 

Waylon felt like there was more to it than that, but he didn’t push. He wasn’t sure if it was safe to push. 

His stomach growled.

“Hungry?”

Now it was his turn to shrug. He didn’t want to be trouble.

“Next place I see, I’ll drive through.”

“Thanks.”

Upshur rolled his eyes. “Don’t want you passing out on us, Park.”

Us. He’d said ‘us.’ Waylon swallowed back a chill and sunk deeper into his seat.

*

The scenery gradually changed to dry bushes along the side of the road. It was so flat. Off in the distance, a cloud of dust rose in a funnel--he couldn’t tell if it was a car on a dirt road or a dust devil like he’d seen in Nevada.

Waylon found himself missing Berkeley. Missing his life before Colorado, when he lived in the valley and the coastal mountains were only a short drive away. Lisa always joked he didn’t look like he was built for hiking, all spindly limbs and long fingers and fair skin that burned too easily, but he loved it. At first it had been about the exercise, but then it became something more, something where when he walked, he could feel the land breathe around him. And the views weren’t half bad, either.

An overpass, red graffiti scrawled on its side: _GOD ALWAYS PROVIDES A WAY_

It looked familiar for reasons he didn’t want to contemplate.

He rested his chin in his palm and swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. Just last year he’d taken Jesse and Caleb--Caleb in a stroller--on a short walk through the farm in the county park. Lisa hadn’t been feeling right, so Waylon got the kids out of the house for the day so she could rest. His eldest found the barn cats and then there was no getting him away from them. The image of Jesse, grinning wide with gaps in his teeth, gently petting a _very_ mellow cat while it batted at his long, dark braids--it was something he’d never get out of his head.

A flock of crows passed over the car, and vultures circled a half mile to their right. Waylon caught Upshur’s eyes on him.

“I wonder what those vultures are sizing up,” the journalist said, clearly attempting small talk.

Waylon thought it was a shitty choice of topic and didn’t reply, just clenched his jaw. This line of thought made him feel sick, made him think of blunt teeth mashing viscera, gore dripping down a scraggly beard.

“You think they’d start circling me if I walked out there?”

“Frankly, I don’t give a shit.”

Upshur laughed. It caught a bit in his throat. “Not one for morbid humor, are ya?” The journalist glanced at the road, then back at him. “Was it always like that?”

“Don’t talk to me.”

“Jeez, calm down. I just wanna get to know you better, Park. Especially since I’m gonna be helping you now.”

“Are you really going to do that?” Waylon had his doubts.

“I...If it were up to me, no. Wanted to get used to having this thing controlling me.”

Again, he didn’t think that was the whole of it. Again, he didn’t ask. He chewed his lower lip. “If you want to get to know me, you can start by calling me Waylon.”

He hmmed. “And you can start by letting me make conversation, huh?”

Waylon just sighed. “As long as it’s not about your corpse.”

*  
~

Waylon was an odd one, though Miles figured he wasn’t the person to be making judgements about weirdness. Still--Miles couldn’t help but think: odd duck.

About twelve hours into the drive--near the Utah border or whereabouts--he got the bright idea to call his mother and let her know they were coming. Problem was, he hadn’t contacted her since he’d died. 

He checked the rearview to make sure it was safe to pull over. Waylon slept in the passenger seat, wheat-blonde hair falling over his face, silver streaks catching the moonlight. Once the parking brake was engaged, he poked his companion in the shoulder. “Park. Waylon. Wake up, asshole.”

The man squinted at him, then sat up. “What.”

“I need you to drive for a bit.”

A flat look. “Why?”

“I need to call my mother. She needs to have a bag packed when we get there.” Miles watched him consider for a moment. “They still haven’t found her, right?”

Waylon reached in the back of the cab and pulled out his laptop.

“Can you even get a signal?”

“Hotspot.” He opened it, and the blue glow illuminated the sharpness in his face and hollowed out his eyes.

Miles let him peck at a few keys.

“Yeah, they found her.”

He felt his world spin to the side. No. No no no. “Do they have her?” Everything in him tensed, and it was shocking, because he hadn’t felt anything like this in a long, long time.

“Not yet. If she has a cell phone, I recommend you call her. Not the house line.”

Miles dug his phone from his pocket and jumped out of the truck, already dialing. From the sound of the passenger side door closing, Waylon had gotten out too. They switched places and he began the call just as they started moving.

One ring. Two rings. And then he got the busy tone.

“Fuck!” he yelled, and Waylon swerved. Horns blared.

“Deep breaths,” Waylon said, obviously ruffled.

“I don’t need to breathe!”

“Calm down and just--just try again in five minutes. And quit yelling. I can’t drive with you yelling like one of my kids, okay?”

Miles clenched his jaw and punched the numbers in again.

One ring. Disconnected.

He slammed his fist on the dashboard. It cracked. Wasn’t even a little bit satisfying. “Dammit! Dammit fucking motherfucking dammit!”

“Miles. Calm down.”

He couldn’t. They were gonna find his mother because he couldn’t get through to her and--

Waylon grabbed his phone. “Calm the fuck down.”

Miles snatched it back. “I’m as calm as I’m gonna be. Eyes on the road.”

A long sigh. 

He dialed the number again. It didn’t even ring before he was disconnected. She was hanging up because she didn’t recognize his number. Miles felt a low hum crackle behind his eyes. He dialed again. Something in the phone crunched.

One ring. Two rings. 

Three rings.

It went to voicemail. Fucking finally.

“Ma, it’s Miles.” The Walrider hissed and clicked in his other ear. “Ma, I uh. When you get this, pack a bag and call me back.” He hung up.

He let his head fall into his hands, and the Swarm settled while he shook.

Waylon glanced over at him again, then said, “If you want me to keep driving for a bit...”

“Yeah, that’d be nice. Thanks.”

“No problem.” They switched into the next lane, silent for a moment. “She’ll call back.”

Miles wasn’t sure if he was scared she wouldn’t or scared she would.

*

They pulled into a strip mall so Waylon could make a pit stop around an hour later. Miles emerged from the car buzzing with fear and anticipation, terror in his fingers. The Swarm didn’t like it. The Swarm wanted to take his brain and make it blank again, because the nanites were agitated. The Swarm wanted quiet, wanted--

His phone buzzed. He didn’t even check the caller ID.

“Hello?”

A voice broke unintelligibly through static.

“Hold on.” Miles pressed the phone to his chest. “Go away, you’re screwing with my reception.” The Walrider projected severe annoyance into his mind, then slunk off to do...something. He put the phone back up to his ear. “Hello?”

“Miles!”

The world tilted another degree. “Mom,” he whispered. He cleared his dry throat, for no reason but to have something to do. “Mom, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, switching to Korean fluidly. “What happened to you? Where have you been? What’s going on?”

“Ma, Ma, slow down,” he answered in English.

Waylon emerged from the little store.

“Did you pack a bag?” he asked, with a little effort.

“Miles, why do I need to pack a bag?”

“Ma. Did you pack a bag?” He enunciated slowly, to convey his frustration without yelling. 

“Not yet, no.”

“Okay, pack up and expect me tomorrow morning.”

She was silent a moment. “Are you in trouble, Peach?”

He gave in and switched languages. “I...I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mom. I am, but so are you.”

“I gathered.”

Waylon suddenly tapped him on the shoulder. 

He flinched back, but then met his eyes. “Hang on a sec, Mom.”

Waylon whispered in his other ear, “She needs to leave the house. They know where she is and they’re on their way.”

English: “Wouldn’t they just get her outside the house?”

“Less chance catching her than inside.”

His teeth ground together, and said, still speaking English, “Mom, change of plans. Pack fast and head somewhere safe.”

“Where can we meet?”

“Uhh. Uh, the temple by that restaurant you like.”

A sigh. “Oh, Miles. Be safe.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too, Peach.”

He hung up. A presence over his shoulder, then the cool, scaly touch of hundred of thousands of nanomachines on his neck. 

“Told you she’d call,” Waylon said. Miles decided not to remark of the fact that he didn’t question the Korean.

“Get in the car.”

*

They stopped for gas in the dark of the morning in Nevada. The route they’d taken had just barely skated them around the Colorado border--Miles was sure Waylon was also glad they hadn’t had to go through. It was too close, too raw to think about; the mountains were too unforgiving, the sky at sunset that sick orange he’d thought was beautiful when he’d pulled up to the asylum. The trees would have suffocated him. Even though he didn’t breathe. Even though he’d already died under Colorado’s orange sky and its rocky soil.

So they stopped at a gas station, desert stretching out around them like the strident call of a violin. Fluorescent lights flickered gently, buzzed in time with the Walrider, and the pink neon of the 24 hour convenience store sign drew the nanites close up in fascination. It loved neon, was attracted to the light like a swarm of moths.

Miles headed in to pay with cash. The clerk looked up from a textbook when he pushed the door open with a jingle. She went back to her book while he grabbed a few easy snacks for Waylon and leaned on the counter, took a lighter to add to his purchase. Maybe he should be more careful with his money. Maybe it didn’t matter.

The clerk scanned his pile of things and added the gas to his total, all tired eyes and tired hands.

“Thanks,” he said, and tried to mean it.

Waylon was sitting in the truck bed when he got outside, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Can you drive?”

Miles tossed the snacks at him. “Yeah. Get some rest.”

His companion breathing quietly in the passenger seat, the sky a dark starry void, he leaned on the accelerator and they drove off into the night, leaving the gas station like a lighthouse in a great dusty sea.

*

Dawn creaked opalescent over the Central Valley, setting row after row of dewy almond trees sparkling. The Walrider, he could tell, was interested in the sunrise. Miles wasn’t sure why--it was like any other sunrise he’d seen.

**it’s the west, miles.**

“And?” he murmured, careful not to wake Waylon.

**the air is lighter. the sun bites.**

He shrugged and gently rubbed his thumb over the smoothness of the steering wheel. Three more hours, four at most, and his mother would be safe. She’d be with him, and--the Walrider stirred and made a sharp sound--he’d tear apart anyone who hurt her and suck out the marrow from their bones.


	6. Chapter 6

_Puts me much myself in mind of a rabbit-crouch._  
 _Is it more a meat-safe._  
 _Set there hid bedded there looking all the world like a coffin._  
 _Somebody cares to tend to it like a spring gets tendered clears the leaves!_  
_Hutch_  
_Atsuro Riley_

~

The building was old and the paint on the door was peeling. The offering dish outside was empty, but there was movement behind the curtains on the second story and the door was unlocked. Upshur--Miles? Should he start calling him Miles, now? The man was inscrutable, but he carried tension in his shoulders that made Waylon realize it would be prudent to ask permission to come up. Something told him this would be a reunion he might not want to see. He’d feel like he was intruding, otherwise.

“Do you want me to stay here?” he asked. 

Miles blinked down at him. The other man only had a few inches on him, but right now he seemed to loom like Walker had in the doorway of that radio room. 

Waylon’s throat tightened.

Finally, Miles spoke: “No.”

Ah. So he’d be coming with. Nerves rose behind his teeth and he quirked his mouth to one side. “Okay.”

Miles opened the door and headed up the carpeted stairs without another word. The air smelled like incense, though Waylon couldn’t tell what kind. It was easy to follow the other man, even when the stairs creaked and made him unreasonably tense--perhaps it was just the low ceiling and narrow hall. He wouldn’t be surprised. This carpet reminded him of the halls near the lobby, the carpeting he couldn’t help but sprint down, even with his fractured, festering leg. The stump of his knee gave a sharp ache in its prosthetic, and he nearly stumbled. He wished he’d brought his cane from the truck.

Upstairs, there was a small room, chairs lined up around the walls. A few people were praying. There was a suitcase in the corner. Miles stopped short. Waylon held his breath.

A middle-aged woman, a pile of knitting in her lap, looked up and promptly dropped the needles. “Miles,” she breathed.

“Hi Mom,” said his companion.

For a moment the two seemed frozen in the sweet air. It was the woman--apparently Miles’ mother--who set her knitting to the side and stood. She walked the few steps to reach her son and stopped, put her hands on his shoulders. She looked at him for a long time, then--slowly, gently--laid her hands on the back of his head, an arm around his back, and waited for him to step into the hug.

Waylon felt dizzy, and realized it was from the breath he was holding. He let it out, breathed in again.

Something in Miles seemed to break--Waylon definitely should not be here--and he let out a long, tired sound, half-collapsed into the small woman.

“Where were you, where were you?” She whispered, stroking his hair, and continued in a language Waylon didn’t know and couldn’t identify as anything other than vaguely Asian. Again, he felt out of place, felt uncomfortable, and if the stairs were less threatening he’d have gone back down to wait by the truck.

A shadow--the Walrider, Waylon realized with a shudder--rose from Miles’ back, and Miles jerked backwards. “We gotta go,” he said, voice rough and eyes red but dry.

“I hope,” Miles’ mother said, “you’ll tell me what’s happening soon.” And then her gaze fell on Waylon. “Miles,” she murmured, “do your problems have anything to do with the fact that you have the Murkoff whistleblower with you?”

Of course she recognized him.

“Yeah,” Miles answered curtly. “Ma, this is Waylon Park. Waylon, this is my mother, Iyeong Yi. Now can we go?”

Ms. Yi frowned at her son. “I realize we’re under some kind of threat here, but an explanation would be nice.”

~

Even with her heart threatening to burst with all she felt, Yi Iyeong considered herself a practical woman. And the last eight months, she’d been using a lot of her logical brain to figure out just where her son had gone. She could’ve called the police, but she wasn’t stupid--Iyeong may not have loved that Miles put himself in danger constantly through his job (she may have hated it), but she knew if he’d disappeared he was likely undercover and the cops would blow it. And then he’d be even less safe.

And then the news about Mount Massive Asylum broke. Last she’d talked to her son, he’d told her about following a lead in Colorado. She knew about his crusade against the Murkoff corporation. It hadn’t been a stretch to guess where he’d gone.

The night she realized this was the night she broke all the glass in her house, the night she hurled a lamp out the window and clutched that little clay disk with his baby handprint on it to her chest and never, never let go--

But here he was in front of her, with the whistleblower. So Miles must have been there that night, but how was he alive? How was he here?

Her toes curled up in her sneakers. She was angry, but so happy, but so, so angry. Why hadn’t he called? Why had he let her think she’d lost her son--

Iyeong took a deep breath. She deserved an explanation, and the two young men in front of her were stiff like rabbits in a trap. “Well?”

Miles blinked at her, and suddenly he was so alien, so far away, and it gave her chills. “Let’s get to the car, first.”

She didn’t like that. She really didn’t like that. But she nodded.

Waylon Park, in front of them, hesitated for a moment before he went down the stairs. Miles followed him. She followed Miles.

Waylon Park stopped them both with an arm, and peered out the door before they went out carelessly. Iyeong saw the reason in that, but it was unnerving nonetheless. He nodded, and opened the door.

She didn’t see Miles’ Jeep anywhere. “Where’s your car?” she asked.

“Ask him,” her son muttered, gesturing at Waylon Park. There was a story there. She was sure of it.

Miles unlocked the door to a beat-up truck. “There’s some space in the backseat, if that’s comfortable for you, Mom.”

Iyeong decided to get in. Her son lifted her suitcase in next to her, then climbed into the passenger seat. She caught Waylon Park looking at him funny.

He glared right back. “I don’t wanna have to focus on driving and defense at the same time.” He turned. “You don’t by chance have Dad’s Glock, do you?”

She resisted the urge to purse her lips. That gun had been hers before it was Miles’ father’s. “I don’t. Sorry, Peach.”

Miles suddenly looked like he was thinking hard. “Okay.”

Waylon Park went around the side and got in the driver’s seat. “Miles, keys?”

Her son handed them over. They started off.

“So,” she said, “where’s my explanation?”

~

Miles felt sick. The Walrider chattered and groaned, needling its fingers around his ears. How much should he say? How much _could_ he say? “I...okay. I told you I had a lead in Colorado?”

“Mhm.”

“When Park here blew the whistle, he blew it to me first.”

“Mhm.”

Her lack of verbal response was terrifying. “So I was there during the Incident.”

Silence.

Waylon took a hard left and shifted gears before they ascended a hill.

Miles wasn’t sure what else to say. “I guess that’s it.”

“Peach,” his mother said, “I gathered that much. Why did you disappear for so long?” He should’ve known she’d figure that out.

An easy question. He’d just go with...well, if it wasn’t the truth, it was a contributing factor. “I didn’t want to put you in danger.”

“And now why am I in danger?”

“They found you anyway. Murkoff found you anyway.” He would regret that for the rest of his existence. “I’m so sorry.”

“Peach--”

“Mom, it’s my fault.” He ground his teeth together.

“Why are they after you, darling?”

Waylon, in the driver’s seat, flinched hard but managed to stay in the lane.

Miles decided to ignore it for now. He had to figure out how to be delicate about this. If everything went right, his mother would never find out the whole of it. “I...have something they want back. But if I give it to them, they could do some horrible things.”

She paused, obviously thinking hard, then reached out and touched his shoulder. “I still love you, baby.”

Something hard stuck in his throat, and his eyes went gritty. “Love you too, Ma.”

“I hate to break this up,” Waylon said, “but someone’s on our tail.”

Shit.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a short one. I promise we'll have a longer chapter next week.
> 
> Warning for mild body horror and a heavily-alluded to (but not graphic) suicide attempt. If that's not your thing, you're not missing too much.

Split the boy --his thorax, throat  
Pierce-peel the craw:

A jag-crystalled crust --his black scoria, slag  
(not _Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled_ )  
_Craw_  
_Atsuro Riley_

~

Jesse had left his favorite Barbie on the floor again. It wouldn’t have been such a problem, but it was three AM and Waylon was still getting used to the prosthetic, and he didn’t want to leave his family but they’d have to go somewhere safe under fake names and try very hard not to be murdered--in short, the stress and the pain and the dark did not make a good combination. A rubbery snap, and he lit up his phone to see what he’d just broken with his metal foot.

A plastic doll, neatly severed at the waist. He turned and puked in the kitchen sink.

*

He lay with his head in Lisa’s lap, her fingers threaded through his hair.

“I like that you’re growing it out,” she murmured.

Waylon wasn’t sure he liked it, but he wasn’t letting anyone near him with sharp implements for a while. He didn’t even really trust himself with his razor. He wasn’t sure who he thought he’d hurt. The fan turned lazy circles above their heads, and he picked at the bandages on his knuckles; the other day he’d broken a mirror. He hadn’t recognized himself.

Some days he wanted to claw out his eyes and eat through his own skin.

“You’re safe,” Lisa whispered, bending and pressing a kiss to his ear.

He knew he was safe. But were they?

*

It felt like there was something under his skin trying to break out. It felt like beetles, stretching and tearing at the thin membrane--it didn’t feel like skin anymore, it felt like plastic wrap pulled too far--that covered his muscles.

*

Things were fuzzy. Waylon knew he shouldn’t be out when it was so cold, registered the frigid slushy feel of a wet pant cuff against an ankle that was probably his, but the sky was so beautiful and wide and exposed. Maybe the big black shadow he’d seen in the labs would swoop down and devour him.

Waylon wondered what it’d be like to be eaten. Would it hurt?

Something sharp sliced through a foot that was probably his, but the pain wobbled away as he walked. Not even that lasted. Just the low wail of the Engine in his ears and a kaleidoscope in front of his eyes.

*

He was kissing her and he didn’t want it to end, because when it ended it meant she’d leave, she’d get on that bus and he’d never see her again--

Lisa stroked his hair, kissed his forehead. “See you soon, darling.”

It took all he had not to scream.

*

The house was in flames. The dirt sizzled under his bare feet. There would be nothing left in the ashes of the Park family home; why didn’t he feel better?

*

His head wasn’t right wasn’t right wasn’t right wasn’t right there was something CRAWLING under his skin and he hacked hacked hacked and STILL CRAWLING with the starvation he felt when they strapped him to that chair OH GOD MY SKIN MY SKIN MY SKIN

*

Waylon’s phone buzzed. It took him a second to find it, as it was folded in the sheets, but he answered it without checking caller ID. The nurses would be pissed that he was on his phone when he was supposed to be resting, he thought vacantly, but then he heard a familiar voice and almost choked.

“Hi honey,” Lisa said, tinny on the other end of the receiver.

“Lisa,” he said.

“Just wanted to let you know we’re safe. I don’t think I can call for a while, baby.”

He nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see him. “Be safe.”

“I love you.”

Waylon hung up. Love was not...his. It wasn’t his, right now.

*

He knew what they wanted to hear and was let out in time for the trial. Waylon was sure nobody believed him, but then again, nobody could treat something like this.

*

The government put him up in a sterile apartment. The bleach-scented air had never been both so clinical and so comforting. The hospital-clean rooms made him retch.

*

Squirming and scratching at the walls of his veins scratch scrATCH SCRATCH SCRATCH IN MY BLOOD AND THEY WANT TO GET OUT THEYRE IN MY BLOOD AND THEY WANT TO GET OUT

*

The lawyer was oily somehow, and there was a buffer, almost, between himself and her babypink-lipstick-smile. Something familiar moved behind her eyes.

“Thank you, Mr. Park. You’re very brave to do this.”

*

Waylon wanted to scream against the mattress, but all that came out was a long growling whine. He wanted to tear out his throat--the crawling hadn’t left and he knew what it was now: it was a new creature entirely being born in his viscera, crafting itself from his teeth and his hunger. It was trying to escape. It would come out through his throat, through his windpipe.

He had become a soft place and it was time for the softness to split like an overripe peach.

Waylon let the dark claw from his throat, come out of his mouth. It gripped him, and he saw finally what he needed to do.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahahahahahahahahaaaaa I totally didn't forget this fic existed because I'm still unpacking from a move
> 
> totally

_What if I turned into a polar bear, and I was the meanest bear you ever saw and I had sharp, shiny teeth, and I chased you into your tent and you cried?_  
 _Then I would be very surprised and very scared. But still, inside the bear, you would be you, and I would love you._  
_Mama, Do You Love Me?_  
_Barbara M. Joosse_

 

“I don’t think they’ll make a scene in the city,” Waylon muttered, flipping on the blinker.

“I’m glad you think so,” Miles said.

He felt annoyance flare up and quickly squashed it. “We just have to worry about what happens next.”

Ms. Yi shifted in the back seat. Waylon couldn’t get a read on her; she seemed like a sweet woman, but her mind was sharp and she didn’t hide its edges. And she very clearly loved her son. 

Reminded him of Lisa.

Miles was tapping his middle (first, now?) finger against the window. His face was close to the glass, but it didn’t fog.

Waylon jerked his attention back to the road, the traffic, the pedestrians. He bared his teeth and hoped nobody stepped out in front of the truck. A wash of exhaustion suddenly hit him; Waylon bit his lower lip and breathed in deep, then angled a blast of cold air at his face. He turned left. “Out of the city?” he asked.

Miles hummed an affirmative. “Comfy back there, Ma?”

“So far,” she said.

“Might be a good idea,” the journalist said, “to tuck yourself down.”

A rustling sound. Ms. Yi was, apparently, listening to her son. As she curled up, she said, “Where were you for so long, Peach?”

Waylon felt his mouth quirk to the side. She didn’t seem to buy Miles’ story about ‘not wanting to put her in danger.’ He had to admit that he was curious as well. The Miles Upshur he’d sent that desperate email to never possessed the shaking, bricked-off caution of the man in front of him. This woman was his window to what had changed.

Miles turned, abruptly. “I don’t want to talk about it, Ma.”

“You’ve been gone for eight months. I thought you’d died.”

A _presence_ next to him overlaid Miles’ in the passenger seat. Waylon took a deep breath, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled.

Ms. Yi spoke again. “I didn’t report you missing because I thought you might be undercover somewhere. But you weren’t.”

“I was in hiding,” Miles said through his teeth. “I didn’t want you hurt.”

“It’s something more than that.”

“Maybe it’s none of your business,” he growled.

From the corner of his eye, Waylon saw Ms. Yi uncurl, pause and reach out to touch Miles’ shoulder. He went very still under her hand. She rubbed her thumb across the seam of his jacket. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Ma.”

Waylon glanced up in the rearview mirror. The black van behind them was still on their tail.

A pause, and he caught a mutter from Miles: “We can just take them out.”

“No. Something’s not right.” It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to see any more bodies. Even without revulsion slowly rising into his throat, Waylon would know something wasn’t right. 

Miles leveled his disquieting gaze at him. 

Waylon’s skin crawled, and he shut his damn mouth and turned left. He merged onto the highway, calmer than he thought he could manage, and got into the middle lane. The van followed. He thought. “Why are they coming after us now?”

Miles threw a pointed glance at his mother.

“She’s with us, though. With _you._ Going into that would be suicide.”

“They clearly don’t know that yet.”

“It has to be something else! What the hell are they trying to do, Miles?”

Miles’ voice was suffused with static when he opened his mouth. “I don’t care. They’re here; we’ll rip them to pieces.”

Something clicked. “ _Miles!_ ”

Ms. Yi poked her head into the front. “What’s going on?”

“Get down!” It wasn’t entirely Miles speaking, then. Ms. Yi startled.

“Miles,” Waylon said, “They want to know something. About the Swarm. I don’t know what it is but it’s a shit idea to try to take them out.”

“My mother’s right here, Park!”

_“If you go out there, they will have a chance to learn about you._ Do not give them that chance.”

One van turned into two, and the low humming static intensified.

“What is the Swarm?” Ms. Yi asked.

Neither of the men answered right away.

“Get out of the line of sight,” Miles growled.

“I’m trying,” Waylon said, feeling annoyance rise up in him and the whine of the Engine start in his head.

“You said they want something from you,” Ms. Yi said.

“Ma, I’ll explain later. Just. Just. Park, get out of the line of sight!”

A little red sedan was blocking his entry into the next lane. “I’m trying, Miles.”

Nerves and buzzing saturated his tone. “Try harder.”

“Shut up!”

The window of the sedan rolled down. Waylon barely had time to see the matte black muzzle of a rifle before a flash and a line of white-hot-blinding _pain_ in his shoulder--

The truck swerved--

Ms. Yi bashed up against the window in his periphery--

A spray of blood and a scream and--

Miles _liquified_ and exploded from the sun roof, a dark-cloud-obsidian-shadow-man hurtling to stand on the pavement and kill. Miles. The Swarm-and-Miles.

Concentrated terror.

Waylon sped off into the brightness. Hospital. Find a hospital.

An odor like the beginnings of the Incident flooded his mouth.

*   
~

It was in her son’s new edges that Iyeong saw a different creature. He was sharp where he hadn’t been before, worn down where he’d always pushed back. Tired, now, not angry. Wrathful--wrath was an entirely different animal from anger--and protective, a new sadness pulling around his eyes. He still was low on patience, but instead of his impatience being a product of his eagerness to know the world, it was seemingly a product of fear.

It made sense.

Miles had been at the Incident at the Mount Massive asylum, the Incident everyone was capitalizing on through documentaries and books, and sermons about the end times; Iyeong thought it was disgusting but sat chewing her nails, rapt through all of it. The tasteless dramatizations, the insensitive speculation, Waylon Park at the Murkoff trial. She couldn’t look away. She could never look away, not for one instant, because her son was still out there and following a lead in Colorado--his last lead, her brain murmured, low and insidious.

She’d sit with a mug of hot chocolate by her side and her knitting in her lap. Sometimes she was on the phone, too, talking because she had to. She’d sit, and she’d take deep breaths, and she’d try to relax.

Yi Iyeong considered herself practical. Miles’ father said she was pragmatic to a fault before he’d run off; she never thought that being pragmatic was a bad thing. So she continued with life as best she could. When Miles’ father was gone, she moved on quickly enough--she had a good job and a son she loved and the motivation to provide him with the best life she could--but her son, gone? Iyeong didn’t show much on her face. She didn’t let her life fall into disrepair. But if anyone, _anyone,_ had dared imply that she wasn’t rent in two when he vanished, she would section out their throat with a bread knife and the crushed glass from her broken window.

In a way, she had lost him. There wasn’t wide innocence behind his eyes anymore. He was missing his desire for justice. There wasn’t...he was missing a bright glint of vitality, and it made her chest ache. Her son was hollow, suddenly, and Iyeong couldn’t make it better, and it _hurt._

But Miles was here. Frightening though he may be, he was here now. And Iyeong would take her son if he was back, no matter his form.

*  
~

Something...shifted. Double focus. 

Pressing rage--blood--

Their mind was blank but their second self was clouded in a fierce joy, hurtling from the truck and to the men in the vans behind them. 

They shorted in a flash of electricity and--

Flash--

Screaming, screaming, wanted to bathe in those screams, wanted to--

Flash--

_We can’t use it, the car’ll go to shit!_

Flash--

The-Swarm-and-Miles felt beautiful gore rise in their chest and the van swerved, driverless, windshield blocked with soft meat--

Flash--

The-Swarm-and-Miles--

The-Swarm--

*  
~

Iyeong felt sick when she opened her eyes. It was hard to breathe, hard to make her chest rise and fall like it should. It was like shards

of

glass 

in her muscles. Iyeong wished it would just stop, just for a moment.

Screaming. Someone was screaming.

It wasn’t her. She didn’t have the breath -- -- --

*  
~

Taste of rot expanding against the tongue; The Swarm-and-Miles buried the hands in the chest and _pulled,_ opened the ribs like two glaciers looming over a bloody valley. They bared the teeth. Blood flecked the gums and tongue.

Elbow-deep in beautiful red and viscera.

The body felt acid burn the roof of the mouth. The body still had qualms the Swarm couldn’t calm. The body was **weak.**

An impulse, pure electricity, bloomed like mycelium across dead wood. The Swarm-and-Miles leaked black waste from the corner of the left eye--

Shorted and dimmed.

*

Something in The Swarm-and-Miles felt ragged satisfaction, the part hooked to tubes and wires and dragged screaming away by death. That part. That part grinned, stretched the lips and said “for my mother” as The Swarm-and-Miles-and-someoneELSE dug under skin and ripped the bodies clean apart.

The Swarm-and-Miles-and-someoneELSE could not tell whose mother they spoke of.

*

It was reported like this: whole men reduced to bloody smears on the highway. A dark pulsing Swarm in the loose shape of a man walking off into the distance.

Nobody dared do a thing to stop it.

The smears were wearing tactical uniforms.

*

It was reported like this: justified revenge. Nobody included: the reporters on-scene broke their professional masks when they saw the mess on the road. The people who found the uncensored images online wished they hadn’t.

*

There had been a shower left running at Mount Massive. Nothing but the terrifying darkness without his camera and the icy rushing water, swirling mud and blood and sewage down the drain, down the drain, the only way out is down the--

*

Miles fell back, the urge to breathe unbearable. The Walrider was a heavy presence in his sternum and for a moment that was all he could feel: the cold metal fizz of millions of tiny machines in his bones.

*

There had been a shower left running at Mount Massive. Miles felt the water consume him, wash him clean, absolve his sins, absolve him, absolve him, absolve him.

*

There had been a shower left running at Mount Massive.

He’d drunk from it. The place was in his sluggish blood forever.

*  
~

Yes, the human body could do incredible things, could push past its limits and limp for its life with a leg impaled on a rusted ladder rung, but at some point that body would fail. Pain was more debilitating than people realized, especially pain from a hollow-point expanding into the meat of one’s shoulder. 

Simply put, Waylon drove until he couldn’t, and then he pulled over to the side of the road. 

He laid back against the seat, feeling with a wave of anxiety his blood pressure dropping. He could tell because his lips were cold and his head was fuzzy. His heart pumped faster. As far as he knew, nothing vital had been damaged, but shit did it feel like it.

He turned with some effort to look at Ms. Yi. She was bleeding from her forehead, from her arm, from her calf. Was she breathing? Fuck, _was she breathing?_ He turned more, tried to reach into the back to check, and a tearing pain arced down his back. Waylon suppressed the whimper bubbling in his throat and tried again.

“Ms. Yi,” he said, and touched her shoulder.

Nothing.

“Ms. Yi,” he said, louder. He needed to go around to the back of the cab. Waylon opened the door and stumbled out, yanking open her door as quickly as he could so he’d have something to lean on. She was sprawled out over the backseat. He checked her head first. It was too bloody to see whether all of that was from a shallow cut or a bullet hole, and _oh god_ he didn’t want to check for brains behind her--

Waylon took a slow breath, tried to ignore the slow pulsing agony of his shoulder, and pulled off his flannel to wipe up what blood he could.

A long gash, probably from her impact with the window. Okay. He put a hand below her nostrils. Good. Good, she was breathing. Waylon sank to his knees and leaned his forehead against the seat cushion. He remembered Lisa telling him how dangerous a blow to the head could be--if Ms. Yi didn’t wake up soon then they could have problems. 

Her arm looked fine when he checked, just another long scratch that needed disinfecting later. That left her leg. Waylon swallowed hard.

Murkoff was willing to hurt Miles’ mother, but for what? Did they really want the Walrider? Did they want it eliminated? Or was it something else entirely? Waylon knew in his gut that he was still missing something.

So many people were dead behind them. Murkoff was willing to expend its own men--but to do what?

Gingerly, he rolled up her ripped pantleg. A ragged scoop out of the side of her calf, glistening in the afternoon light. Okay. Just. Remember when he helped Lisa study. What did her flashcards say? Okay. Waylon took a deep breath, then tore the bottom of his T-shirt with his teeth and ripped it into strips. This wasn’t sanitary but he needed to stop the bleeding and keep debris out of the wound. 

Ms. Yi stirred as he tightly wrapped her graze. His shoulder gave a deep ache. He winced.

Something trickled down his back. Probably blood.

He folded his flannel and pressed the cloth up against his wound, bit back a whimper, and slumped against the car again, sitting in a lump on the asphalt. Waylon closed his eyes and sighed, head buzzing. Buzzing, buzzing.

That wasn’t his head.

For some reason, the flashing shapes behind his eyelids and the sound of the Walrider had become almost comforting. He let his chin fall to his chest. Someone was here.

*

Waylon woke up with a start. Miles’ truck rattled and rumbled beneath him. His head hurt, his mouth dry--his shoulder was a numb burning brand--and he turned to look at who was in the driver’s seat. Miles: a smoky haze around him, black dripping from his ears down his neck, a washed-out-grey to his skin. His jaw was tight and he was going too fast, back into the city, and if Waylon was being honest with himself it was terrifying. He turned again. Ms. Yi was still unconscious in the back seat.

“Where are we going?” he croaked.

**Hospital,** answered a voice that was not Miles. It sounded like ghosts through a white noise generator. Shapes pulsed in his vision. He closed his eyes.

*

Waylon woke up in triage, Miles’ mother slumped against his shoulder. He got the brief impression of a gurney wheeling towards them. He closed his eyes.

~


	9. Chapter 9

_Corruption has never been compulsory; when the cities lie at the monster’s feet there are left the mountains._

_Robinson Jeffers_

 

The eyes--their eyes-- _his eyes_ \--they weren’t focusing right. Everything was hazy, and cold, and tinged with black. His fingers--their fingers--twitched by the body. By his body. Something awful and disorienting disrupted the inner ear and the body--theirs--his--slumped to the side and landed in wet.

A puddle. A sheen of oil. A spark of streetlamp, flickering orange. The bulb needed changing.

Such a mundane, absent thought.

He blinked, and spat, and wiped dirt and oil and...blood, that was blood--from his eyes. He blinked again. The world came clearer.

Miles pushed himself back up against the wall. He had no idea where the fuck he was, and suspected that even if he did he wouldn’t be able to...to what? His brain was still rebooting. Trains of thought derailed easily. It was like when he needed to get the pins put in his femur and the pain meds made him...light.

So he waited for the feeling to come back into his hands. Later. He’d move later, when he remembered why he had to.

*

His mother. Waylon. He’d left them at the hospital, left his truck somewhere. He and the Swarm had killed so many people. 

Miles got unsteadily to his feet and--

_He put his mangled hands in the air, heart and acid and nerves leaping into his throat._ Wernicke maneuvered his chair, staring Miles down with cold eyes. It was intimidating, even though the old man couldn’t lift his own head. The tac team--how many of them were there? Miles couldn’t find enough focus to count, not even--

They lifted their guns. 

Wernicke smiled, cracked lips and watery eyes and stained yellow teeth that bit into the beating hearts of the people forced to bend to his will--

Miles didn’t even feel the first bullet, but it punched out his lung and threw him lurching back. More shots. He hit the ground. He could taste the blood leaking out of his mouth and onto the sterile linoleum and fuck, fuck fuck fuck, he was gonna die for this shit? After everything? He couldn’t get the breath in to howl his frustration, his anguish, his rage. Terror. He thought he’d accepted it but he hadn’t, he hadn’t! Just let him go, let him live just this once oh god, _oh Mommy please help me I don’t wanna die just make it stop make it stop make it stop--_

The world faded.

_“Gott in Himmel. You have become the Host.”_

Miles braced himself against the wall and groaned, black ooze dripping through his teeth as he did. He spat. 

“You there, you little fucker?”

No resounding sandpaper whisper.

“Walrider,” he said, singsong, “Walrider, Walrider.” His head felt broken, somehow. His eyes wouldn’t track properly.

Nothing.

“Where the fuck are you?”

Now he was getting scared.

“Walrider,” Miles intoned again, and more black bile spilled from his mouth, ran down his chin. 

_Let me sell you the dream,_ his head said.

“Waaaalrider.”

No answer. Shit. Shit shit shit. Where the hell was it? Oh god, where the fuck was the Walrider? Was he dying? Had someone taken it from him? Was the Swarm locked up and deactivated somewhere? Was he alone? He retched, fear dribbling out with more black.

This was the experiment. He was his father’s fists. This was the experiment.

He was going to die, going to die for real this time. He wanted to peel off his face and he wanted to crack his teeth and he wanted to _feel something_ other than the screaming shaking frozen--

Miles sank to his knees, head dropping back so he could look at the sky. Death always came from the sky. Somebody had said that once. The sky, the sky, _let me sell you the dream,_ said the sky. “Where are you?”

No answer. Was it gone? Was he finally alone in his head?

“My head...,” he said. His head. His head. Oh, oh, oh, his head. It was all jagged lines of pastel on a black screen. His fingers didn’t feel right. There was a swamp in his unmoving chest.

Was this what was left without the Swarm filling the space? Terror poured in from a crack in his skull. Terror poured in from his eyes. Terror poured in from the sky.

He slipped.

Burning, all he could feel was burning and gorge and horror because the Walrider was gone, it was gonegonegonegonegonegonegonegonegone and

_I've been fucked in the brain by Nazis fuckedinthebrainbynazisfuckedinthebrainbynazis fuckedinthebrainbynazisfuckedinthebrainbynazis_

_this place is in my head_

*

Miles wasn’t sure how he’d gotten to the hospital, just that he was standing across the street from the emergency entrance. He looked down at himself. His shirt was stained with black. He wiped at his mouth with his sleeve, then his jaw and neck, ran his dry tongue over his teeth and tasted metal and grit.

What had he done? What had he gotten himself into?

And now there wasn’t even the Walrider to hold him up. He was weak, and alone, alonealonealonealone 

and weak, so so weak like he’d been in the halls of Mount Massive. Weaker.

What happened? Where was the Walrider? Where was it? He wanted to scream. He wanted the Walrider back. Fuck. He was so fucked. Miles looked up at the hospital again and tried to will himself into the building. He needed to find his mother. He needed to find Waylon Park. Before somebody else inevitably did. Because they always did, and he was the experiment, he was the experiment, he was the experiment and he was broken broken brokenbrokenbrokenbroken

and he let the scratched record play in his head again and again and again--

It was then that he saw it: a figure dressed in a sharp suit nodding to a man in black. The dull gleam of tactically painted gear was almost invisible against his dark jeans. The man went around the side of the building. The figure--a woman--strode in the front as though she’d done so many times before.

A cold knot of dread settled in his dead stomach.

Somebody _had_ found them. 

And Miles was helpless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two should be out...in a couple months? I'm working on it currently, just am going through more transitions than just moving and it might take me a little bit to get back in the saddle. Thank you all so much for your patience!

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at lamby-grahamy or forthebigfic and on twitter @mothership94! Come say hi!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!!


End file.
